


Haiplana

by ChancellorGriffin



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff and Smut, Grounder Culture, Grounder Makeovers, Happy Sex, I Love You, Polis, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-02
Updated: 2016-02-02
Packaged: 2018-05-17 15:07:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5875519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3x02.  Abby and the Skaikru guard arrive in Polis for Lexa’s peace summit.  </p><p>In which there is no death or explosions or Rothenberg-style trauma, and instead Kane is DAD AF! Clarke and Abby hug! Lexa is a surprisingly on-point wingman! Indra and Kane play chess like bros! Abby gets an 80’s-movie-style Grounder makeover montage!  Kane worships Abby in bed like the goddess she is!  Pure fluffy smutty feelingsy sexytimes romance, way too warm and fuzzy to be anywhere near what will happen to us all on this week's episode.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haiplana

“I honestly can’t hear the difference,” Abby said, throwing up her hands in exasperation as they walked, and Octavia sighed.

“It’s more like ‘lack,’ not ‘lock,’” she said.  “But closer this time.”

“Try it again,” said Kane encouragingly.  “You’ve almost got it.”

“Easy for you to say,” Abby retorted.  “You were always better at languages than me.”

“You just didn’t try hard enough,” he said with a grin.  “Now come on.  Try it again.  We’re almost at the gates, you’re running out of time.  And we don’t want you to embarrass yourself in front of the Commander.  Or worse – in front of Octavia.”

“How is that worse?”

“You’ve _met_ her, right?” she heard Bellamy, on the right flank of the guard formation, fire over his shoulder, then quickly dodge the kick Octavia threatened to send into the back of his knees.

“If you’d like me to shoot them all in the back of the head, ma’am, just say the word,” piped up Monroe from behind them.  The Blakes laughed out loud, and even David Miller cracked a smile.

“I want you all to know,” said Abby, “that I am making careful note of the fact that Monroe is the only member of my guard who is not currently mocking my poor Trigedaslang –“

“Trigedas _leng_.”

“Octavia, I swear to God –“

“Easy, Chancellor,” said Kane.

“Marcus, you’re fired.”

“Can’t do that,” pointed out Bellamy.  “You’ve already used up all three of them today.”

“I have?”

“Yeah,” said Monroe.  “You fired him at breakfast for finishing the last of the fruit before you woke up – “

“And then when we were coming over the ridge and the tires hit that boulder and you fired him because his elbow hit you in the face – “

“Oh, I forgot about that one.”

“And then you fired him for telling Octavia to correct you every time you got a word wrong.”

“I thought I fired _Octavia_ for that.”

“I don’t work for you.”

“Damn,” said Abby, “I keep forgetting.”

“So since you can’t fire me –“

“I know, I know,” Abby sighed.  “Again until it’s perfect.”

“Again, until it’s perfect,” repeated Octavia crisply, and Abby took a deep breath.

“’I am Queen Abby of the Sky People,’” she said.  “ _’Ai lak Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru_.’”

Octavia and Kane grinned at each other. “Perfect,” said Octavia.  “Say it just like that.  You got it exactly right.”

“Just in time,” said Bellamy, as they crested the last ridge and the city of Polis sprawled out before them. “Because we’re here.”

 They’d left the Rovers about a quarter mile away, on the outskirts of the city near the public stables.  It was forbidden to enter Polis even by horseback – let alone with an electric car which, given the Grounders’ uncertain relationship with technology, would certainly be seen as a threat.  Everyone had to pass through the gates on foot.  They’d been given a map to navigate themselves to the Thirteenth Gate, through which all visitors not from the twelve clans entered the city.

Lexa’s guards met them at the gate and escorted them down a broad, flat road toward the vast tower at the heart of the city.  Though they only had the opportunity to catch glimpses as they passed, it was clear Polis was an extraordinary place.  All of them felt vaguely disoriented by the sensation of feeling _crowded_ again, of walking through spaces jam-packed with chaotic masses of human bodies.  But it wasn’t like the Ark, it wasn’t dark and pinched and tight.  It was open and sunny and ceilinged by blue sky and riotous with color, bustling and alive and beautiful.  Abby loved it instantly.  Although she would have loved it even if it had been a circle of dingy mud huts in the middle of the desert, because it had something no other place on earth had.

_Clarke was here._

Indra had arrived back in Polis to report on the invading Ice Nation army and found Lexa one step ahead of her, Wanheda already secure inside the tower.  The fastest riders in Polis were sent back to Arkadia to tell the Chancellor her daughter had been found, and that the presence of the Skaikru leaders was requested at Heda’s peace talks.

Representatives from eleven of the twelve Grounder clans (Ice Nation, of course, having chosen to send an army across the border instead of diplomats, which was ominous but unsurprising) were already in the city, housed inside Heda’s tower, where Indra greeted them.  This was where Kane and Abby discovered – to their surprise and dismay – that they were to be separated from the rest of their group for the entirety of the peace summit.

“We’re the Chancellor’s private guard,” Bellamy protested as they were led into a large barracks on the first floor, where they could see guard units from at least half a dozen other clans already beginning to unpack.  “We need to stay with her.”

Indra shook her head.  “Warriors and weapons remain on the lower floors of the tower,” she said firmly.  “During peace summits, our warriors guard the tower together as one.  Upstairs, all guests are unarmed.  This is how we engage in talks of peace.  No weapons are permitted in Heda’s presence.  Marcus may accompany the Chancellor, as her second.  The rest of you will remain here.”

An almost imperceptible shake of Kane’s head silenced Bellamy’s further protest, as he obediently removed his armor and the rifle strapped to his back, handing them both to Miller.

“I don’t like this,” murmured Bellamy.  “Us down here with our weapons and everyone else at the top of the tower.  I don’t like being this far away from her.  What if something happens and she needs protection?”

Kane looked at him for a long moment, his expression difficult to read.  “You mean the Chancellor,” he finally said, and Bellamy looked away.

“Yeah,” he said uncomfortably, staring down at the ground.  “That’s what I meant.”

Kane placed a comforting hand on Bellamy’s shoulder.  “I’ll keep them _both_ safe,” he said firmly.  “I promise.” Bellamy couldn’t quite look at him.  

“Lead the way,” Kane said to Indra, as he and Abby followed her into the heart of the Commander's stronghold.

Heda’s tower was twenty stories tall.  The very uppermost floor was her personal quarters, and the floor below it included the throne room, reception room and formal gathering spaces where the summit was to be held.  The bottom four floors contained guard quarters, housing for Heda’s staff and advisors, the kitchens and storage rooms, and everything else that kept a royal court running.  The fifth floor was the barrier between the public spaces and the private quarters of the clan’s diplomats; as they rounded the stairwell, Indra spoke a few words of Trigedasleng to a wide phalanx of heavily-armed guards, who stepped aside to let Kane and Abby pass through.

“There are thirteen floors between here and Heda’s throne room,” explained Indra as they trudged up the seemingly infinite staircase.  “One for representatives of each of the twelve tribes.  The thirteenth will belong to Skaikru.”

“The Commander is very generous to provide us with accommodations here in the tower,” said Kane, who was better at diplomacy in this case than Abby was.  The Chancellor had agreed to be civil in Lexa's presence, but she had still not forgiven her for Mount Weather, and did not always trust herself to keep the anger out of her tone when speaking of her to Indra.  Kane had been just as furious when they first found out what happened, of course, but three months – and a better understanding of Grounder tactics, thanks to his blossoming friendship with Indra – had given him a clarity of perspective that the mother who watched her daughter forced to irradiate an entire population could not reasonably be expected to have yet.

But Lexa wanted to negotiate with the leader of the Sky People, so here she was.  And she had promised Marcus she would behave herself.

When they finally arrived on the eighteenth floor of the tower, both a little short of breath (Lexa was right not to bother with weapons up here, Kane thought wryly; only the most committed of invaders would make it up that stairwell without giving up), Indra showed them into their quarters.

“This is your room,” she said to Abby, opening a door into a vast, open space with a wall of windows on one end.  The glass was long since gone, leaving them open to the sky and festooned with climbing vines whose blossoms sent a light, airy fragrance into the room.  It was lit with candles and full of ornate Grounder artwork.  Six doors ringed the three inner walls of the vast chamber – two on each side.  She gestured to Kane.  “For the Queensguard,” she said.  “Take your choice.  All of them are the same.”

Kane opened the door, peeked inside, then turned back to glare accusingly at Abby – and at Indra, who was wearing what might very well have been the faintest hint of a smile on her otherwise-impassive face.

“Let me get this straight,” he said.  “I get a cot and no windows, and she gets _that_?”  He gestured to the massive, ornately-carved wooden bed, heaped in furs, on the far side of the room.

“Bet you wish you’d kept that Chancellor pin,” Abby observed as Kane grumpily selected a room at random and tossed his jacket, a trifle passive-aggressively, down on the bed, trying to ignore how openly Indra was enjoying herself.

“If I’d known what a difference it made in travel accommodations,” Kane began, but he never got the chance to finish his sentence.

_“Mom?”_

A blur of brown leather and tangled pale hair shot into the room.  “Clarke,” Kane whispered, watching Abby – who stood frozen, face crumpled, in the middle of the room, unable to move or speak as the girl they called _Wanheda_ flung herself into her mother’s arms.

“Mom,” she said again as Abby held her tight, tears streaming down her face.  Kane motioned Indra towards the door.

“Let’s leave them,” he said quietly, and Indra nodded.

“Wait,” said Clarke suddenly, pulling away from her mother for a minute and then – seeming to surprise even herself – embracing Kane.  “It’s good to see you again,” she said, kissing his cheek, and he swallowed hard, feeling his eyes well up unexpectedly.

“It’s good to see you too,” was all he said, and he kissed the top of her head before following Indra out the door.

* * * * *

Kane had discovered, to his delight, that Indra played chess.

Or rather, “played” was the wrong word.  There was nothing lighthearted about her single-minded, ruthless focus or the stormy glare – powerful enough to melt iron – she shot at Kane when he captured her rook.  Still, she seemed to be enjoying herself.

They whiled away most of the afternoon that way, surrounded by a cluster of other Grounders – who appeared, like him, to be seconds to clan leaders – in a large open room one floor up from Abby’s quarters that appeared to be used for recreation.  Indra won the first game handily, and Kane only barely squeaked out a narrow win in the second, but it was a pleasant afternoon anyway, and Kane felt himself beginning to relax.

Until the end of the third game - when Indra brought up Abby.

"You were the second to another Chancellor, once," she observed, and it was not really a question.

"Yes," said Marcus.

"That is unusual," said Indra. "Among Grounders, it would be a sign of dishonor to be the second to a great leader without becoming the leader yourself."

"I was," he said, absently, preoccupied with deciding between his rook or his bishop.  "For a little while.  But I wasn't very good at it."

"And Abby is better."

"Yes," he said.  "Abby is better."

"Tell me why."

"You know Abby."

"I should like to hear how you describe her."

He looked up from the chessboard then, to see Indra looking at him intently.  She wasn't just making conversation, then (well, when did she ever).  She genuinely wanted to know.  He moved his bishop, and then sat back in his chair.  "Where we came from," he said, uncertain quite how to begin, "we were forced to be ruthless.  We lived by strict laws.  Our resources were scarce.  Kindness, mercy, these were things we could not afford."  Indra nodded.  These were not unfamiliar notions to her.  "I never believed I would see Earth," he said.  "None of us did.  It was the dream of a future generation.  But when I arrived, I could not see - I did not understand - that we could be better down here than we had been before.  We have made mistakes," he said, meeting her eyes steadily, and she gave a faint nod, the history of their often-bloody relations passing unspoken between them, "but Abby was the first among us to realize that things could be different, here, if we allowed them to be.  She saw things I could not see.  She had courage I did not have.  I was afraid of change.  I only trusted what I knew."

"She changed you," said Indra, regarding the board intently for a long moment before moving her queen.

"She changed all of us," he said, moving his knight almost absentmindedly, and was startled back into reality by the sound of Indra saying, "Checkmate."

He looked down at the board and saw with astonishment that he had led his king into a trap.

"You allowed yourself to be distracted," she said reproachfully.  "You could have put my king in check and won the game if you had left the knight where it was and sacrificed your queen."

She was right, he realized. It was an embarrassingly obvious mistake, one a child would make.  He looked up at her, prepared for a stern lecture on gaming tactics, but instead found Indra - unexpectedly - _smiling_ at him.

"But perhaps," she said, in a tone he could not entirely read, "putting the safety of the knight before that of the queen is not a tactic which comes naturally to you."

Marcus didn't answer.  He was thinking about a pair of metal poles with yellow canvas straps tying up Abby's wrists, and about the voice of Thelonious Jaha cutting in just in time to stop him from pulling the switch on an airlock door.

"It did, once," he said, surprising her with his honesty.  "It doesn't anymore."

"No," said Indra softly.  "I cannot believe that it does."  She picked up the chess pieces and placed them back in the box one by one.  "No time for another game," she said. "Aster and Dakota will be arriving soon.”

“Who are they?”

“In order to represent your clan among the leaders of the Grounder coalition,” Indra said, casting a critical eye over his threadbare black guard uniform, “you would do well to present yourselves in the manner of leaders of the Grounder coalition.”

"That sounds like an insult."

"It's a statement of fact," she retorted.  "Come."  And as she rose from the table and made her way back to the hallway, Kane stood to follow her, then stopped, looking back down at the table.

Indra had left Marcus' white queen standing alone in the middle of the chessboard, with the white knight beside it.

Side by side.

* * * * *

Kane wasn’t sure which was Aster and which was Dakota, but by the time he arrived back in his room one of them – a slight, dark-skinned woman clad in leather – was standing behind a wooden stool where Abby sat, and was brushing the Chancellor’s hair.  “Wanheda has returned to her quarters to dress,” said the woman.  “I am Aster.  I will be maidservant to Haiplana while you are here.  You are Marcus of the Sky People?  The queen’s second?”

“Yes,” he said.  She nodded and gestured to the far corner of the room, where a tall young man with long black braids tied in an elaborate knot was rummaging through a vast pile of trunks and boxes which had somehow materialized in the room while he was gone.  “My brother Dakota will wait upon you,” she said.  “Heda sends us to dress you for the ceremonial banquet tonight.  She has selected clothing for you to choose from.”

“Please thank her for us,” he said.  “We are grateful for the Commander’s generosity.”  Dakota waved him over.  “Dakota,” he said.  “My name is Marcus.”

“He does not speak the language of your people,” Aster said.  “Only Trigedasleng.”

“Ai lak Marcus kom Skaikru,” said Marcus, and Dakota smiled.

“You speak our language well, Marcus of the Sky People,” said Aster.

“He does,” agreed Abby.  “Much better than me.”

“Try it out on her,” said Marcus, standing still as Dakoka held up silk shirt after silk shirt against his chest, frowning and considering.

“I’m saving it for tonight,” said Abby.  “I don’t want to jinx it.”

“Haiplana,” said Aster, “tell me about the traditional braids of the Sky People.”  Abby stared blankly.  “Your braids,” Aster said again, patiently.  “All Grounder clans have their own way for this.  They signify a meaning among the tribes.”

“Your ways are new to us,” said Abby.  “The Sky People have no such traditions.  Or at any rate, we don’t yet.”

“Perhaps, then,” said Aster kindly, “it is time for you to begin making your own.”

And then Abby smiled, suddenly, struck with an idea.  “Yes,” she said.  “I think, perhaps, it is.”

Marcus’ hair required no such elaborate efforts, which meant that once Dakota had selected his clothing, the men had nothing to do until it was time for Marcus to actually dress.  So they both found themselves drawn back over to the stool by the window where Aster was brushing Abby’s hair.  They were conferring quietly – Abby seemed to be describing a shape with her hands – and he saw Aster nod in sudden comprehension, smiling with pleasure.

The sun was beginning to set, lighting up the big window behind them with a copper-rose glow, and threading Abby’s silken hair with flecks of gold.  He watched Aster brush it until it shone like a sheet of metal – resisting a startling and unexpected desire to reach out and run his fingers through it – and then both he and Dakota pulled up chairs to watch in fascination as Aster began carefully dividing it into sections.

It took a long time – nearly two hours of meticulous, painstaking work.  Aster switched places with Dakota about halfway through to rest her hands before beginning again.  When they finished, Abby’s utilitarian ponytail was nowhere to be found.  In its place was the hair of a Grounder queen.  “What do you think?” asked Abby, rising from the stool for the first time and turning so he could see her face

Marcus swallowed hard.

Half a dozen impossibly delicate, tiny braids wove in and out of her thick, honey-colored tresses, framing her face, and one single thick braid following the same pattern, with the ends caught back at the nape of her neck in a cascade of thick curls trailing down her back.  But that wasn’t what caught his eye.  Encircling Abby’s head like a crown was an intricately woven ring – not a simple braid, something much more complex, with a string of small beads threaded through it, and with six smaller braids threaded through it, like the spokes of a wheel, meeting in a thick knot at the back of her head.  There was something about that shape that felt somehow, impossibly, _familiar._

“Do you see it?” asked Aster, pleased with herself.  “Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru wearing her people’s past and future together.”

And then Marcus’ head snapped up, and he stared.

“It’s _Alpha Station_ ,” he said, stunned.  “It’s _Arkadia_.  She wove Arkadia into your hair.”

“Past and future,” agreed Aster, smiling, and Marcus felt himself suddenly, bafflingly, well up with tears.  “No time for that,” said Aster firmly, waving his emotions away.  “Time to dress.”

Then Dakota very unexpectedly pulled Marcus’ shirt off over his head, as Aster reached out for Abby’s.

“Oh, no, I –“ Marcus began, as Abby looked at him uncomfortably and pulled her own shirt back down.  “I’ll change in my room.”

Dakota shook his head.

“Not enough room for the trunks,” Aster explained.  “You will dress here.”

“But –“ Abby protested weakly, then trailed off.

“We don’t . . . undress in front of each other,” said Marcus.  “That is not our people’s way.”

“You are the queen’s second, yes?” asked Aster, puzzled.  “You share a tent in battle?  You assist with her armor?”

“Not quite.”

“In our culture,” said Abby, “people rarely undress in front of each other unless they’re about to –“  And then she found herself suddenly unable to finish that sentence.  

Aster sighed, impatiently. “Then you may face the window,” she said to Abby, “while I dress you.”

“Thank you,” said Abby, obediently turning around.

The atmosphere in the room became strained and silent as Dakota removed Marcus’ clothing and Aster removed Abby’s.  They could each hear the sound of fabric hitting the floor, of zippers and buttons.  Kane was silently struggling not to think about the tantalizing flash of bared stomach he had caught before Abby pulled the hem of her shirt back down out of Aster’s hands.  Abby was thinking about the fact that she had turned her back just a heartbeat too early before Marcus’ chest was visible.  They were both agonizingly aware of their own nakedness, and the other’s, even though they were hidden from each other's view.

It was Kane, finally, who broke the silence.  He was on the other side of the room, but she was as aware of his voice – of his every breath – as if he were standing at her shoulder.

“Try it again,” he said.  “While we’ve got time.”

“Ai lak Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru,” she said, carefully pronouncing each word.  She was grateful to have something else to think about besides the strange sensation of listening to the rustle of fabric behind her, thinking about Marcus’ clothing – and the body underneath it – which she was so palpably aware of, yet couldn’t see.

Why was she thinking about what Marcus was wearing?  Why did any of this matter?  Why did she feel this peculiar sense of _gravity_ between them?  Why did it feel so strangely like a wedding, like the clothing itself was somehow part of the ceremony?  Why could she not stop listening for Marcus’ breath?

Good God, why was she _nervous_?

_Get it together, Abby._

“Again,” said Marcus, breaking through her reverie.

“Ai lak Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru,” she dutifully repeated, just as Aster smoothed the folds of her skirt and stepped back to admire her handiwork, nodding approvingly.

“Heda will be pleased,” she said.

“It’s beautiful,” said Abby honestly.  “It’s nothing at all like what I expected.”

“This is how our people clothe themselves for peace rituals,” Aster explained.  “You have only known our people in the midst of battle.  You have only seen Heda in the field of war.  Here in Polis, our ways are different.  Your guards are downstairs, with all your weapons; up here, in the tower, where there are no weapons, it is a sign of trust – in Heda and in each other – for clan leaders to clothe themselves in a very different way.”

“I can see that,” said Abby, and Kane could hear the hint of a laugh in her voice.  “Nowhere to conceal a knife in this outfit, is there?”

"Definitely not," Aster agreed wryly, and Kane swallowed hard.  “For the formal peace ceremonies,” she continued, “you and your second must follow the rituals, to clothe yourself according to the traditions of peace time.”

“I understand,” said Abby.  “It’s not enough just to carry no weapons.  It’s that we want everyone to _know_ that we carry no weapons.”

“This is correct,” said Aster.  “We negotiate for war wearing battle armor.  We negotiate for peace wearing silks.  It is our way.”

“Thank you,” said Abby.  “This is helpful to know.”  She laughed a little, and Kane heard the sounds of rustling, fluttering fabric as she said “It’s certainly an interesting sensation, to be wearing a dress again.”

Kane’s head snapped up at that, just as Dakota brushed off the lapels of his jacket and silently pronounced him finished.

_She was wearing a dress._

He was going to turn around, and Abby would be wearing a dress.

“You do honor to the Sky People,” pronounced Aster.  “Their queen is magnificent.”  She looked over Abby’s shoulder just then, nodding with approval at Dakota.  “Marcus kom Skaikru, you too do honor to your people,” she said.  “And to your queen as well.”  She smiled at Abby.  “Say the words again,” she said.  “Now that you are in the clothing of a Haiplana you will feel the words differently.  You are a queen.  Hold yourself high, and bow your head only to Heda.  The others are your equals.  Marcus,” she said with a smile, “you may turn around.  The queen is ready.”

“Ai lak Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru,” Abby said, and turned around to see Marcus staring at her.

“Yes you are,” he said softly, his warm brown eyes staring at her with something flickering in their depths that made her feel shivery all over, and she couldn’t stop himself from staring back.

 The presence of Aster and Dakota, bustling around the room and packing up their trunks and boxes while chattering amicably in Trigedasleng now that their work was done, made it impossible for either Marcus or Abby to say what they wanted to say.  Or what they would have said, if either of them had been able to form words.

The first, most obvious thing they each noticed hadn’t occurred to either of them – though in hindsight, of course, it certainly should have.

They _matched._

Indra's chess board might have placed Marcus of the Sky People as Abby's knight, but Aster and Dakota had dressed them as king and queen.

Abby’s eyes took in the sight of Marcus Kane, for the first time in all the thirty-five years she had known him, wearing _color._ Dakota had dressed him in a draped copper-yellow silk shirt, open halfway down his chest (and revealing a tantalizing expanse of chest hair she struggled not to stare at too openly), and a pair of flowing silk pants in the same shade, over which he wore a floor-length gold-and-yellow coat, studded with copper starbursts and belted with rich brown leather.  He looked taller, somehow.  She had always known he was a handsome man, but she’d never seen him this _vibrant_.  He wasn’t the Marcus Kane she’d known on the Ark – the imposing soldier in black with a pinched white face, cold eyes, sleek dark hair that only made him look more pale, that tightly-coiled tension that surrounded him like a dark cloud wherever he went.  He hadn’t been that man in a long time, of course; he had begun to transform the minute they hit the ground.  But he was unrecognizable now.  He looked like some kind of ancient sun god, she thought suddenly, the bright golds of his clothing illuminating the dark richness of his thick, soft hair and tawny skin.

He was magnificent.  That was the only word for it.

“You look . . .” she began haltingly, and couldn’t quite finish.  But it didn’t matter, because he wasn’t listening.  She could have told him the building was on fire, and he wouldn’t have heard a single word she’d said.

All he could see was skin.

Her silky dress was the flaming orange of a sunset, cut in a startlingly low V down the front, under which she wore a yellow brocade bodice that left her entire midriff exposed.  Over it, she wore an elaborate necklace of beaten-metal discs which hung down to her waist.  The silk of her skirts floated and rippled around her like water when she moved, so weightless that he could see the silhouette of her legs beneath it.  He felt warm all over just looking at her, at the glow of her creamy skin and the way the cloud of gossamer tangerine silk fluttered around her.  He’d never seen this much of her skin before.  He wondered if it was as soft as it looked.

He took a step towards her suddenly, then halted himself.  “Abby,” he started to say, then stopped.  Abby couldn’t quite look at him, then; she lowered her eyes to the floor, wrapping her arms protectively about her torso, suddenly keenly aware of how very _exposed_ she was, how much of her body Marcus could now see.  She could feel his eyes burning into the bare skin of her shoulders and throat, the white V of skin between the swell of her breasts inside her yellow bodice, the softly rounded planes of her flat stomach that sloped away beneath the coppery fabric down, down, down, towards –

“Haiplana,” said Aster, who they had completely forgotten was there, startling them both back into the present with a violent jolt.  She lifted up Abby’s elaborately curled and braided hair which hung down her back, and draped it over her left shoulder, exposing the back of her neck to Kane.  The silk straps of her bodice met in a knot at the nape of her neck, just one slender strand of silky ribbon.  One tug, he thought, and the whole dress would shimmer to the floor.  

“Better,” pronounced Aster, just as Indra arrived at the door to escort them upstairs.

“You look wonderful,” Abby told her honestly.  Indra too was wearing a dress, though not a floating silken confection like the Chancellor’s.  Hers was the bright gleaming blue of a cloudless afternoon sky – spectacular against the contrast of her rich dark skin – in a stiff brocade fabric that fell in sharp, angular layers from her bared midriff down to the floor.

“Beautiful,” agreed Kane.  They both felt it far easier to speak to Indra, in that moment, than each other.  Probably because Indra was entirely unfazed by their compliments.

“I know,” she said flatly.  “Come with me.  It’s time.”  She gave Abby’s braids one last adjustment, and brushed a stray thread off Kane’s jacket shoulder – she seemed to feel a tremendous sense of responsibility for making sure they did not embarrass her – then led the way to the stairwell up to the Commander’s banquet hall.

Indra had briefed them both thoroughly on protocol.  The peace summit was to last three days, and this formal banquet was its first official event.  Over the course of the next hour, Abby was introduced one by one to the leaders of the other eleven clans present (the pointed absence of Nia, Queen of the Ice Nation, serving as a sobering reminder of just why they were all there), and was greeted with great respect by the Commander.

 _“Ai ste shoun of Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru,”_ Kane said over and over as they filed down the line of clan leaders. “May I present Queen Abby of the Sky People.”

Clarke, in her elaborate Grounder braids and gold dress, stood at Lexa’s side, tension coiled in every muscle of her body.  Kane did not know what mother and daughter had said to each other after he had closed the door and left them in privacy, but he noticed that every time someone addressed her daughter as “Wanheda,” Abby flinched.  Clarke did not look happy either, but Kane knew she wouldn’t be at the Commander’s side playing this macabre role unless it was the only way to keep her people safe.  She was willing to grit her teeth and do what it took, but that didn’t mean it was pleasant for her mother to watch.

Still, Abby was the leader of the Sky People, and she did her job well.  Kane followed her around the room as she conversed with the other clan leaders, standing at her side, one respectful step behind her, head slightly bowed – the proper stance of a clan leader’s second.

Which meant that he spent two hours staring at the curve of the back of her neck.

And the slope of her bare shoulders.

And the tantalizing knot of silken ribbon which would unfasten Abby’s dress completely and send it billowing to the floor in a cloud of tangerine silk with just one gentle tug.

He had had no idea that it would be like this.  He had not known where he was headed.  Abby Griffin was standing in a candlelit banquet hall with bared shoulders and silken skirts, soft dark curls tumbling over her shoulder and a knot of Grounder braids shaped like the Ark coiled around her head like a diadem, introducing herself as a queen in near-flawless Trigedasleng, and Marcus Kane was lost.

The wine ritual was the last part of the ceremony before they sat down to dinner, and by the time it arrived, Marcus found himself very much needing a drink.  The clan leaders stood behind their carved wooden chairs – marked with the insignia of their clan – while their seconds stood at their right hand.  A carved chalice – gleaming white, carved out of something that might have been bone, was passed around the table.  The seconds were to take a drink, then pass it to the clan leader when it was deemed safe.

Luna kom Floukru sat to their left, and her second passed the goblet of wine to Marcus.  He took a long sip.  It was sweet and strong and immediately went to his head, making him feel warm and languid all over as he passed the cup to Abby.

She took a long drink of it too – placing her lips on the rim of the cup, whether by accident or design, exactly where his had been, and even though it wasn’t a kiss he felt it on his lips anyway.  If he kissed her right now, her mouth would taste like Grounder wine.  If he kissed her right now, and slipped one hand behind her neck and gave one light tug, her body would be bared to him and he could hold her in his arms and take her breasts in his mouth.

If he kissed her right now, he would create a public disturbance in the middle of the Commander’s banquet hall, mortify Clarke and risk damaging the peace talks with such a flagrant show of disrespect.

It was the wine.

It was definitely the wine.

 _You need to eat something,_ said the sensible voice inside his head.   _You’re getting lightheaded._

Lexa took her seat just then, giving the rest of them permission to sit too, and he pulled Abby’s chair out for her as he saw the other seconds do.  She lowered herself gracefully into her seat, and he sat down on the plain wooden chair beside hers.

She was so close to him that he could feel her bared shoulder pressed up against his arm.

_Get it together, Marcus._

Then she turned to him and smiled unexpectedly, the candles on the table burnishing her glossy hair and flame-colored dress as though she was made of gold, and suddenly it wasn’t playacting anymore, this queen thing, it wasn’t a ritual they were enacting to appease Lexa and the clan leaders, it wasn’t a set of words he’d been making her rehearse all day long.  It was _her._  It was the straightness of her back and the square, determined set of her shoulders, the way she carried herself with pride even though she was one of the smallest women in the room.  It was the glow of hopeless love in her eyes when she looked down the table and shared a quiet smile with her daughter.

It was the way she lit up the room like the sun was rising.

_Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru._

“Chancellor” was too cold a word for it.  “Queen” was the only thing, he thought, that felt right.

* * * * *

The feast went on for hours.

There were traditional dishes from each of the twelve clans present – nothing from Ice Nation, who had forfeited such an honor by crossing the border unannounced, but the Sky People had brought with them a basket of strawberries from the first harvest at Arkadia which Lexa’s cook had baked into a platter of delicate, sugar-frosted tarts.  Lexa informed the guests that Skaikru had grown these fruits themselves, which was tantamount to a command that everyone had better enjoy them.  Fortunately, everyone did.

As Abby’s second, it was Kane’s job to pass dishes back and forth, and see to her needs.  As he reached into the center of the table for the huge metal pitcher, to refill Abby’s water glass, his hand accidentally brushed against her shoulder, startling him half to death.  He felt her flinch beneath his touch as the words she’d been about to say – something banal about the food – died on her lips.  She fell quiet, and couldn’t look at him anymore.

Which was interesting.

So a few minutes later, he tried it again.  

Following the tarts, a platter of spiced fruits was passed around the table; Marcus reached behind Abby to take the platter from Luna’s second, and his fingertip very, very lightly brushed her back – bared to his hand thanks to the low drape of her dress.  Instantly her shoulderblades drew together as her back tensed up against his hand.  She swallowed hard and didn’t look at him.  As he leaned over her shoulder to set the fruit platter in the center of the table, she whispered his name very softly – too quiet for anyone around them to hear.

“Marcus. What are you doing?”

“We’re just having dinner, Abby.”

“That’s not what I meant.”

He ignored this, reaching over to refill her wine glass.

“I don’t think either of us need any more wine,” she murmured faintly, then flinched again as his fingertips brushed against her wrist and stayed there.  “Marcus,” she said, a hint of warning in her voice, but she didn’t pull her hand away.

Neither of them looked up across the table just then.

Neither of them saw Lexa’s sharp eyes flick almost imperceptibly down and then back up again, complete comprehension dawning for a moment on her face before the mask fell down again.

Neither of them saw the very faintest hint of a fraction of a smile on her face.

And, most importantly, neither of them saw her turn in her seat and address Clarke, forcing her to turn her back to her mother and Kane in order to answer her back.  Clarke was barely maintaining the necessary veneer of civility as it was – she certainly didn’t need to be pleasant, Wanheda was allowed to be brusque and mostly silent – but she did need to remain in control.  All in all, Lexa thought that redirecting Clarke’s gaze from her mother and preventing any kind of uncomfortable outburst was the only solution.

And besides, she'd always liked Kane.

So the clan leaders spoke in noisy Trigedasleng to each other and Clarke gave terse answers to Lexa’s questions and nobody was watching Marcus Kane run his fingertip in light circles around the inside of Abby’s wrist.

Nobody was watching as he lifted her hand from where it lay on the table and lowered it below the tablecloth, to hold it in his own.

His heart began to speed up, and he could hear hers do the same.

He was startled by the sudden onrush of desire crashing down on him like an avalanche.  It astonished him, the force of it – how badly he wanted to lift her up in his arms from that Grounder throne and kiss her until she couldn’t breathe and then carry her downstairs to that glorious fur-draped bed.

Where had this come from?  How long had it been here?  Had the braids and the dress brought it on, or had it been there inside him all along?

It was unbearable.  She was so close to him, she was right here, all soft skin and gleaming hair, but she was Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru and he was her second and he could not touch her.

Or, at any rate, he could not let anyone see.

He let go of her hand, then, and did something that startled them both.  He slid the palm of his hand under the table to rest atop the impossibly smooth silk of her skirts, resting on her thigh.

She flinched so hard at this she almost spilled her wine down the front of her dress.  “We are twenty feet from my daughter,” she hissed.

“She’s not looking.”

“Marcus – “

“I’m not doing anything.”

“Your hand on my thigh begs to differ.”

“You’re Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru, and I’m your second,” he pointed out matter-of-factly.  “You can order me to take my hand away if you really want me to.”

She looked at him then, a long searching glance, then flickered her eyes down to the hand caressing her silk-clad thigh.

Then she lifted her glass of wine, coolly took a long, deliberate drink of it, and said nothing.

The hand stayed.

And there it sat, getting warmer and warmer, pressed against that glowing orange silk, until Heda stood from her chair, signaling the end of the meal, and they stood to return to their room.  Lexa caught Kane’s eye as he followed Abby out, and gave him the briefest flicker of a smile.

* * * * *

The fact that Marcus had to pass through Abby’s room to get to his own was something that neither of them could cease thinking about as they made their way in silence back down the stairs. There was no simple way out, with Marcus going left down one hallway and Abby turning right down the other. They stepped into Abby’s bedroom and Marcus closed and bolted the door behind them and then they simply looked at each other.

“It’s late,” said Abby uncertainly, but it wasn’t clear whether or not it was a dismissal. It wasn’t clear if even she knew what she meant by it.

“Yes,” he agreed carefully, waiting for another sign.

“I have to take all these braids out before I go to bed,” she said with a faint hint of laugh, but tentatively, as though she was nervous, hunting around for something to say. “Aster says I can’t sleep on them without messing them up, I have to have them brushed out and redone tomorrow.” She reached up behind her head to pull out the first pin.

“Wait,” said Marcus softly, and before he knew what he was doing he had joined her in front of the window. “Let me.”

“Marcus,” she murmured, and he could see her begin to breathe harder, her eyes dark and serious as she looked up at him.

“Let me,” he said, something almost imploring in his voice. Finally she nodded and turned her back to him, staring out the window onto the moonlit streets of Polis as Marcus moved in close behind her and finally, finally, after hours of waiting, reached out a hand to touch her hair.

He was slow, and careful. He began with the slender strap of leather that gathered the long, trailing locks at the nape of her neck, and untied it to let her curls fall free. The knot at the base of her head was next; he pulled out the pins one by one and gently unplaited the long, thick rope of hair, running his fingers through it to separate the strands, then letting it too fall down in a honey-colored cloud down her back. The crown around her head – the gleaming ring of hair shaped like their home – took longer, a more complicated pattern of woven knots and strands. He let the silken tresses slide through his fingers, caressing them as he ran his fingers through it to pull the plaits free.

“Turn around,” he said to her in a hushed voice, and she did.

The moonlight at her back set her hair aglow as he reached up to undo the last piece of her elaborate Grounder hairstyle – the series of impossibly delicate, tiny braids woven through her hair framing her face. He stepped in very close to her, gently unbraiding the silken strands. He could hear her breathing. He could feel her heart pounding inside her chest, in perfect rhythm with his.

When the last braid had been unwoven, he ran his fingers through her hair, hungrily, indulgently, giving himself permission just to touch it. Just to savor the way it felt against his skin. It fell in a curly golden waterfall around her shoulders, and he twirled the ends of it in his fingers as he bent his head close to hers.

Then he reached his hand back behind her neck and did the thing he’d been waiting to do all night long.

He pulled gently, lightly, at the ribbon of tangerine silk, and Abby let out a hushed gasp as the bodice of her orange dress fluttered down, baring her chest to him completely.

“Marcus,” she whispered, astonished, but it wasn’t a no, because she reached down to his waist, almost timidly, and unfastened the buckle of his long gold-and-yellow coat. He pulled off the belt and shrugged out of both the coat and his silken wrap shirt. She reached out for him, but he shook his head.

“Let me look at you,” he whispered, stepping back, and she nodded. Hesitantly, almost shyly, she slid her palms down to the curve of her hips and with one swift movement sent the cloud of tangerine silk fluttering to the floor so she stood naked before him.

It was long past midnight and the moon was full, shining in the night sky above their high window and casting a soft glow on her loose, gleaming clouds of hair and pale skin. He looked at her for a long time, his skin flushed warm and his heart pounding, entirely undone by the force of his desire for her.

It wasn’t the dress, the braids, the air of grandeur. It wasn’t the way she walked through that room like a queen. Because here she was, her hair loose around her shoulders, her white skin unadorned, and she was still the most startlingly beautiful thing he’d ever seen in his life.

He moved in close to her again and then astonished her completely by kneeling on the floor at her feet, clad in nothing but his flowing silken pants, and pressing his forehead against the soft bare skin of her stomach.

“’Ai sonraun laik yu sonraun,’” he said softly, and from the sharp hiss of her intake of breath he realized that she understood him. That somehow, somewhere, she had learned these words too.

_My life is your life._

Lincoln had taught him that. It was something that a warrior’s second would say when he charged into battle. But it meant something very different, here at her feet with his forehead resting against her soft skin, and they both knew it.

Her hands came down to tangle in his hair, caressing him, brushing the thick dark locks back from his temples, holding him close. When his mouth pressed against the skin of her stomach and he began to kiss her, she caught her breath sharply and moved in closer and closer, letting him have more of her, pulling him in.

Then his kisses moved lower, and lower, until her whole body began to tremble as he sank his mouth between her thighs.

She tasted like moonlight and ocean, tart and sweet at once, and startlingly, astonishingly wet against his hungry tongue. “Marcus,” she whispered, as her hands gripped his hair and the moonlight shone down through the window on her bare skin as he knelt at her feet and worshiped her.

His tongue was insistent, hungry, yearning. She was the sweetest thing he had ever tasted and he drank from an ever-replenishing well of her flowing wetness, which seemed infinite no matter how much he drank. Her panting breaths began to deepen into low, gasping moans as his tongue and lips and beard pressed deeper and deeper inside her, devouring her wetness and tracing hungry circles around the hot, aching place right at the center of her. It took no more than a few minutes for the waves to rise up inside her and crash over her body, leaving her muscles weak and trembling. She cried out, pitching forward against him and letting go of his hair to grip his shoulders in frantic hands to try and keep her balance. As her climax rushed over her and then subsided, he stood up and caught her in his arms, lifting her soft white body and carrying her over to the bed.

It was enormous, the most imposing bed Abby had ever seen – with four posts at the corners made from a tangle of carved wood, scrap metal and animal horns – and she felt impossibly tiny lying there in the center of it. Kane set her down atop a pile of furs and cushions, and as she burrowed down beneath them, pulling the silken sheets and heaped furs over her body in glorious comfort, she watched with a pounding heart as he stepped back from the bed and his hands drifted to the waistband of his trousers. He looked back at her, almost uncertainly – waiting for permission – and she nodded back to him, eagerly, pleading, her whole body crying out yes. So he loosened the drawstring and pushed the fabric over his hips and stepped out of the pile of golden silk pooled on the floor to stand naked before her.

She let herself look at him for a long time. He’d been pale all his life, even as a child. White skin, dark hair, cold eyes. And tall. Tall enough to be frightening, sometimes. He walked around the Ark like he was made of steel.

But where was that man now?

There was nothing remaining of the old Marcus Kane in the man who stood naked at the edge of her bed. The pale smooth skin was golden-brown and marked with scars. The sleek dark hair he'd always worn slicked so stiffly back, never a strand out of place, was soft and shaggy now, with more curl in it than she’d ever have expected, falling in soft waves back from his brow and against the back of his neck. Even the beard, she liked. She hadn’t thought she would. But it was one more way in which he’d become a different man in the past four months, one more way in which the cold iron was replaced by softness.

She let her eyes drift downward, greedily, gazing with open desire at the dark pelt of hair on his bare chest, following it down his torso and over the slope of his hips until –

_Oh._

She swallowed hard, looked back up at him, and saw in his eyes an endearing combination of self-consciousness and desire. He was ever so faintly amused by the shameless way her eyes raked over him, and acutely aware of the fact that it was written on his body how desperately he wanted her. The evidence was right before them.

“Marcus,” she whispered, and held out her hand.

He climbed into the bed with her, beneath the heap of fur blankets, where everything was impossibly warm and soft, and he knelt over her, knees straddling her hips, and cradled her face in his hands.

“Kiss me,” she whispered, her eyes wide and dark and naked with want. “Kiss me.”

So he bent his head, so close to hers that he could taste the warmth of her breath, and he laid a soft kiss on her mouth. It was just a faint touch, at first, soft as silk, almost tentative. She closed her eyes and smiled and sank back against the mountain of pillows – _Cleopatra,_ he found himself thinking unexpectedly – and let out a soft, contented sigh that completely unstitched him. “More,” she said, reaching up to tangle her hands in his hair and pull him back down to her. And so he closed his eyes and let himself go. The insistent pressure of her fingers caressing his hair and face, the way her mouth fell hungrily open as he leaned back towards her again, the way her whole body rose up off the cushions when his lips touched hers . . . it was a pleasure so fierce he found it nearly unbearable.

They kissed until they couldn’t breathe anymore, until they were forced to break apart, panting and gasping for air, clutching each other like shipwreck survivors. He brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes and looked down at her, looked at her with those warm brown eyes the color of good soil – how could she ever have looked into those eyes and thought they were cold? How could they have been so wrong about each other? – and said, almost apologetically, “I’ve been wanting to do that all night.”

“Oh, I think you’ve been wanting to do it a bit longer than _that_ ,” she said playfully, and she hadn’t meant it like _that_ , not really – she’d only meant since the afternoon, really, she was only talking about the dress – but there was something in the way he went shy and still and couldn’t quite look at her that shifted the air around them and suddenly something that had been hovering at the corner of her sight, just out of reach, resolved itself into crystal clarity right in front of her.

“Marcus,” she whispered, taking his face in her hands and guiding him back, making him look at her. “I have something to tell you.”

“What?”

“I haven’t been honest with you,” she said in a somber tone that made his blood run cold. “There’s something I should have come clean about a long time ago.”

He swallowed hard. “Tell me,” he whispered. “Whatever it is, just tell me.”

“Promise you won’t be angry with me.”

“I won’t. Just tell me.”

“All right,” she said. “The thing is – my Trigedasleng is actually perfect.”

He stared. “What?”

“I’ve been taking lessons from Lincoln,” she said. “We didn’t tell anyone. And it makes Octavia feel good to be able to teach me something.”

“What?”

“Ai lak Haiplana Abi kom Skaikru,” she said, the words rolling off her tongue as though she’d been born to them, and he was as astonished as he was dazzled – and faintly amused.

“Very good.”

“Lincoln says I’m a natural.”

“You chose an odd time to flaunt your linguistic skills,” he observed, and she smiled at him, but a little tentatively, as though she were suddenly shy.

“I was waiting for the right moment,” she said. “For this.”

“For what?”

“Ai hod yu in,” she said, caressing her cheek with her soft hand, and his heart stopped inside his chest.

“Abby,” he said, eyes wide with astonishment. “Abby.”

“I know what it means,” she whispered. “I asked him. I asked him to teach me.”

“Abby, I –“

“Ai hod yu in,” she said again, pulling him down towards her and kissing his mouth. “I love you, Marcus. I love you. I love you.” And then she startled all the breath out of his lungs by reaching down and guiding him inside of her.

He slid in so deep they both gasped in astonishment. He sank down heavily against her body as her fingers dug wildly into his back, clutching him, holding him close. They went slow. They let themselves feel everything, savor everything.

He liked how soft her skin was.

She liked the way his sweat tasted when she kissed the hollow of his throat.

He liked the way she caught her breath when he slid out of her, then back in again.

She liked the feel of his beard on her breasts when he bent his head to capture her nipples in his mouth.

The moon hung high in their window, shining soft pale light across the mountain of impossibly soft furs heaped over their rising and falling bodies. Pleasure so overwhelming it was almost pain shot through them with extraordinary force, yet they made no sound except soft breathy cries and panting breaths. They felt a hush wrap around them, as though they were inside a bubble. As though they were the only two people in the world.

Marcus sank deeper and deeper inside her, heavy and hot and yearning, and she opened herself to pull him in, cradling his body against hers with impossible affection. When he felt himself begin to rise toward climax, he lifted his head away from her shoulder and brushed the hair from her face, resting his hands with dizzying gentleness along her cheekbones and jaw, and his eyes asked a question, which her eyes answered with a fervent _yes._ So he let himself speed up, bit by bit, let himself thrust harder, deeper, let himself give her more, as much as he could, as much as he had, he offered himself up to her completely, he laid himself at her feet, he was entirely hers, and when he felt her second climax of the night begin to rush towards her, he pulled her tightly into his arms and felt her bury her mouth against his shoulder to muffle her cries. He held her close while she came and came and came, her heart pounding inside her chest so violently that he could feel its drumbeat thrumming against his own skin. He held her until she came back down to earth, kissing her face and hair and throat, until finally she softened and went pliant in his arms and he laid her back down. Then, “Please,” she said to him in a dazed, dizzy whisper, her hands pressing his hips down against hers, and he’d held out as long as he could but the pressure was beginning to make him feel faint. So he sank down against her soft, yielding body, feeling the furs and the moonlight and the gentle hush wrap their arms around him, and Abby did too, drawing him in, holding him close, looking up at him with her shining dark eyes, and he came inside her so hard he had to bite his lip to keep from crying out. It felt so good, to come inside her, to feel her arch her back to capture more of him. It felt so good, to hold her close like this.

Finally spent, he sank down on top of her, sweating and panting and soft all over, and then he kissed her and kissed her and kissed her.

“Marcus,” she said, sliding her arms around his back, and the last thing either of them remembered before they drifted off to sleep was the way he buried his face in her silken hair and whispered, “Haiplana. Ai hod yu in. Ai hod yu in,” over and over and over again.

_My queen._

_I love you._

_I love you._

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Skaihefa: The King In Exile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6185887) by [ChancellorGriffin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChancellorGriffin/pseuds/ChancellorGriffin)




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